Starlit
by SimplySupreme
Summary: The ending of Inheritance was a bummer. Really, I didn't like it at all. So, naturally, I decided to rewrite it. This new alternate ending to the story will make more sense, and give new hope to the dreamers out there. EXA, MXN, SXF, etc. Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1: Teachers

**Welcome back, I Am Arya readers! And for new readers, just plain welcome! I am thrilled to present you with the alternate ending to Inheritance! *wild cheering*  
><strong>**Honestly, I'm printing this out when I'm done and taping it in the back of the book and forever pretending that the canon ending doesn't exist, and never existed. Please enjoy the first chapter! (Yes, it starts out _very_ similar to the actual book. Yes, I jacked a _lot_ of material. Give me time and _trust_ me, this _will_ turn out better. But for now, baby steps! It begins to change by the end!)**

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><p><em>Begin: page 728, paragraph 8 (hardback version)<br>(for those of you with a different copy, the 41st paragraph of the chapter entitled "Sea of Nettles") _

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><p><em>Arya! <em>Eragon thought desperately. He tried to find her with his mind, but was met with failure. Either too much material separated them, one of the spells woven throughout the mined-out crag separated them, or… or she was dead.

_No. She's not dead. _He reassured himself. She had not been in the room as it collapsed; that much he knew, but he wondered if she would be able to find her way back out again, now that the throne room was blocked.

But as they emerged from the ruined citadel, Eragon forced such thoughts from his mind as the air cleared, and he was able to see the true scale of the destruction that the blast had wreaked on Urû'baen. It had ripped off the slate roofs of many nearby buildings and set fire to the beams underneath. Scores of fires dotted the rest of the city. The threads and plumes of smoke drifted upward until they collided with the underside of the shelf above. There, they pooled and flowed along the angled surface of the stone, like water over a streambed. By the southeastern edge of the city, the smoke caught the light of the morning sun as it seeped around the side of the overhang, and there the smoke glowed with the reddish-orange color of a fire opal. It possessed a terrifying beauty that he stood dazedly to admire as the two nameless children ran off to their own home. The door to the house flew open, and a balding man with a sword at his belt stepped out and wrapped the two of them in his arms. He gave Eragon a glance, and then hurried the children inside.

"_Just think. One day they'll be able to tell _their _children how it came to be that they were mere yards away from the Black King Galbatorix facing off with Eragon Shadeslayer and Saphira Brightscales, and how they witnessed his demise," _Eragon mused, oddly comforted by the thought.

Saphira merely hummed.

Thorn sat a number of yards away from Saphira, and Nasuada carefully helped Murtagh down from his back. The man slumped against Thorn's belly and began to recite spells of healing. Eragon likewise attended to Saphira's wounds, ignoring his own for the moment, as hers were far more serious. The gash on her left foreleg was as wide as both his hands put together, and a pool of blood was forming about her foot.

"_Tooth or claw?" _he asked as he examined the wound.

"_Claw,"_ she responded.

Nodding at this, Eragon proceeded to mend it, as well as a gash of his own. But as he worked, he kept an eye on Murtagh—watched as Murtagh healed his gut wound, as well as the injuries of his dragon. Nasuada remained at his side the whole while, her hand resting on his shoulder.

Eragon then turned to Elva, who was standing nearby. She appeared pained, but he saw no blood upon her. "Are you hurt?" he asked of her.

The girl's marked brow furrowed, and she shook her head. "No. But many of them are," she remarked, indicating the people fleeing the citadel.

Grunting a noncommittal response, Eragon once again glance over at Murtagh. He and Nasuada were standing now, talking to each other.

Nasuada frowned.

Then, Murtagh reached out hesitantly, and when he was not stopped, grasped the neck of her tunic and pulled it away, ripping it. Eragon had drawn Brisingr halfway out of its sheath before he saw the farrago of livid welts below the gentle curve of Nasuada's collarbone. The sight struck him like a blow; it reminded him of the wounds on Arya's back after he and Murtagh had rescued her from Gil'ead. It clawed at his heart that in both cases, he had failed to rescue his friend in a timely enough manner to prevent it.

Nasuada nodded and bowed her head.

Again, Murtagh began to speak, although this time, Eragon was sure, in the ancient language. He placed his hands upon various parts of Nasuada's thin body, his touch gentle and tender—even hesitant—and her expression of relief was all the evidence Eragon needed to understand how much pain that she had been suffering from.

He watched the pair for a moment longer, marveling at the softness Murtagh displayed in Nasuada's presence. Then, a sudden rush of emotion swept through him. His knees grew weak, and he sat on Saphira's right paw. The dragon lowered her graceful head and nuzzled his shoulder, and he leaned his head against her warmth.

"_We did it," _she said in a quiet tone.

"_We did it,"_ he repeated slowly, hardly able to believe the words. He could feel Saphira mourning the death of another dragon, even if he was mad and dangerous, and gripped her scales. Feeling light, almost dizzy, the rider had a sensation that he might simply float away from the surface of the earth. It seemed impossible that Galbatorix was no more. As Eragon contemplated the fact, something within his mind seemed to release, and he remembered—as if he had never forgotten—everything that had transpired during their time in the Vault of Souls.

A tingle shot down his spine. _"Saphira—_

"_I… I know. The eggs!"_ she crowed.

Eragon smiled wearily. As a race, the dragons would not pass into the void. They would survive and flourish, and return to their former glory, as they had been before the fall of the riders.

"Look!" cried Elva, pointing.

Immediately, Eragon turned and saw Arya walking out of the dark, crumbling maw of the citadel. With her were Blödhgarm and his spellcasters, bruised and scraped, but remarkably, beautifully, alive. In her arms, Arya carried a wooden chest fitted snugly with gold hasps. Behind her, the elves tended to a long line of bulky metal boxes that floated along beside them.

More relieved than he assumed was proper to let show, Eragon sprang up and ran over to them, startling Arya by unceremoniously swinging her up into an awkward, box-hampered embrace. When he let her go, her cheeks were tinged a lovely shade of pink.

"You're alive!" Eragon exclaimed, elated. He skidded over to Blödhgarm and embraced him as well, although with less reckless abandon than he had used with Arya. The furred elf regarded him for a moment with his yellow eyes, but soon broke into a smile, flashing his fangs.

"We are alive, Shadeslayer."

"And those are… the Eldunarí?" Eragon queried, speaking softly and indicating the levitating boxes.

Arya nodded, meeting his eyes, which told him all he needed to know about the condition of the dragons trapped inside. They were damaged and traumatized, years beyond recovery. But recover they would. And yet those wonderful depthless eyes held a glint of… something else.

"And is that…?" Eragon motioned toward the chest she carried.

The elf woman glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to see; then she lifted the lid the width of a finger. Inside, nestled in velvet, Eragon saw a beautiful green dragon egg, webbed with veins of white.

Lifting Eragon's heart, Arya's face shone with unadulterated joy: something he craved to see only more of. Grinning mischievously, the rider beckoned the other elves closer to them. When they had gathered close, he whispered to them in a flighty string of the ancient language and revealed the secret of the eggs on Vroengard.

They did not shout or laugh, but a few, including Arya, let out little squeaks of excitement. Their eyes gleamed, and the entirety of the huddle trembled with excitement. Grinning incessantly, Eragon bounced on his heels, delighted by their reaction.

Simultaneously, Saphira and Arya uttered an exclamation. Shifting his gaze, Eragon saw Nasuada standing alone in the courtyard. Next to her was a pair of saddlebags that Eragon didn't remember seeing on Thorn. A breath of wind tousled the air in the courtyard, and he heard the distinctive sound of dragon wings. But of Murtagh and Thorn, nothing remained.

"Where are they going?" Eragon yelped running at Nasuada. Twin tracks of silvered tears painted her cheeks, and for the first time since her father's funeral, she seemed perilously close to losing her composure altogether. "Nasuada, where?" the rider repeated, more gently this time.

"Away." The word was dead and listless, and her chin trembled for a moment before a cold mask of indifferent strength closed around her features and she stood a bit taller.

Cursing, Eragon took a guarded peek into the saddlebags, only to find exactly what he suspected: more Eldunarí. "Arya, Blödhgarm!" he shouted shortly, gesturing at the bags vehemently. The elves nodded and rushed forwards.

With that, Eragon bolted to Saphira, not needing to explain himself. It took only a moment to spring into the saddle, and Saphira took less than that to spring into the air in pursuit. Cheers rose from the city as the Varden caught sight of her through the smoke and dust, flapping quickly in order to follow Thorn's musky scent trail through the air. It led her south, out from under the shadow of the overhang, where it turned and curved up and around the great stone outcrop, fleeing north, towards the Ramr River. For several miles, the trail ran straight and level, slipping over generous wind currents. But once the broad, tree-lined river was almost beneath them, the scent began to angle sharply downwards.

Studying the ground ahead, Eragon spotted a flash of crimson by the foot of a small hill on the other side of the river. Saphira clearly had as well, as she began a lazy spiral downwards until she alit softly atop the hill, where she had the advantage of height. The air off the water was cool and crisp, carrying with it the scent of moss, mud, and sap, these smells overlaid with the clamorous white noise of the rushing river.

By the edge of a field of nettles sat Thorn. Murtagh stood next to him, adjusting the girth on his saddle. Forcing his hand away from Brisingr's pommel, Eragon tentatively approached, a bit wary.

Without turning around, Murtagh demanded, "Have you come to stop us?"

"That depends. Where are you going?"

"I don't know. North, maybe… somewhere away from other people."

"I hoped that you and Thorn would stay."

Murtagh uttered a bark of mirthless laughter. "You know better than that. I have only ever caused problems, and besides, the dwarves would never stand for it. Not after I killed Hrogthar."

Blinking away a pang of hurt, Eragon asked curiously, "Why did you do it? Kill Hrogthar?"

As if it were obvious, Murtagh murmured, "To appease Galbatorix. Why else? From the beginning of that battle, I knew that I would let you go. I knew that Thorn would be put through immeasurable pain as a result of this same decision. It wasn't an option; I had to spare him from what I could. In the end, I had to choose between capturing you and Saphira and killing Hrogthar. You know my choice. There are things worse than death, and I chose the lesser."

"_You would do well to tell this to the new king," _Saphira pointed out after a poignant pause. _"I, for one, forgive you. You would still have to answer to the dwarves, but between your reasoning, which will be understood, and the fact that I myself will vouch for you, they will, I think, be lenient."_

Eragon nodded seriously. "I regret that you killed Hrogthar, but I understand why you did so. The dwarves would punish you but I…" He hesitated a moment. "I agree justice should be served, but I too will ask that you be forgiven, at least for the most part."

Murtagh simply blinked sorrowfully and muttered, "Arya is a dragon killer. That can't be easy for her—an elf killing a dragon. You should talk to her and make sure she's all right."

Without thinking, Eragon replied, "I will," surprised at the depth of Murtagh's insight.

"I'm not—_we're_ not—" Murtagh continued, touching Thorns sturdy blood-red side, "what we once were. That is how we could defy Galbatorix. But even as you know from so long ago, I will not mourn the death of someone who was a threat to me. What has changed… I will not mourn the death of someone who was a threat to myself, or someone I love. And now... now that extends beyond Thorn. Would the dwarves understand that, Eragon? I lack honor in their eyes. There would be trouble."

In the back of his mind, Eragon could feel Saphira and Thorn talking to each other. Saphira, he knew, would tell him later what had passed between them. "What is it that you want?" he asked of the red rider, his gaze never wavering from his face.

"I want… I want to sit and think. Make a _home _for myself." was the response, long in coming.

For a moment, Eragon considered these words, a breath of wind kissing at his light brown hair at stirring the fine robes that Murtagh was garbed in. "I think—I know—you want more, Murtagh." Eragon said simply. "Peace and a life of your own, yes. But you're my brother, and I know you. You're a good man, and you've never been allowed to become what you really are. Stay in Alagaesia Murtagh," he pleaded, "and despite any initial turmoil, you will prove yourself the best of us all. You've already convinced Nasuada. And Roran won't be long in coming. He's your cousin as well as mine, and you've never even met him."

Appearing sorely tempted, Murtagh opened his mouth, shut it again, and then shifted his gaze out over the horizon. "It… it wouldn't work. Thorn and I need time alone; we need time to heal. If we stay, we'd be too busy to figure things out for ourselves."

"Were you to ask to be left to yourself, I would respect your decision," Eragon retorted. "Going north to the unknown, or an isolated peak in the Spine, what's the difference? Other than you'll be closer to people who care about you. Closer to Nasuada, whom I _know_ cares a great deal about you. And closer to… to other dragons."

"_Eragon! _I _wanted to tell them!" _Saphira snorted, disgruntled.

Murtagh's eyebrows shot up into his dark hairline. "Tell us… what?"

Even Thorn's eyes harbored a sharp spark of curiosity.

Somewhat mollified, Saphira projected her thoughts to the both of them. _"The egg that Galbatorix had—it isn't the only one in Alagaesia. There are more, hidden in the same place where we found the Eldunarí we brought with us."_

With disbelief evident on his face, Murtagh turned towards him. At the same time, Thorn arched his neck and uttered a joyful trumpet that rang across the plains, startling a flight of swallows from the branches of a nearby tree.

"How many more?"

"Hundreds."

For a moment, Murtagh seemed unable to speak. Then: "What will you do with them?"

"Me? I think Saphira and the Eldunarí will have some say in the matter, but probably find somewhere safe for the eggs to hatch, and start to rebuild the Riders."

"Will you and Saphira train them?"

Eragon eyed Murtagh determinedly. "To the best of our ability, yes. But with just the two of us training them, and even with the elves' assistance, their education wouldn't be complete. That is why I wish for _you_ to help. You and Thorn have a wealth of knowledge to share with the new dragons and riders, and I wish nothing more than for you to share it. Wherever we choose… it will be quite isolated: far from normal people. You would have complete freedom to do as you choose, so long as you remain a good master to your students. There will be peace and time for you and Thorn, but also joy and new hope to surround you."

"_Will you accept?" _Saphira requested softly, her glittering azure eyes fixed on the red pair.

Murtagh tilted his head back and released a long breath. "The dragons are going to return, and the Riders as well." He laughed softly. "The world is about to change."

"For the better, I should hope," Eragon said, smiling a little.

For what Eragon knew was probably the first time in a long while, Murtagh smiled back. A silence ensued then, as Murtagh turned to his dragon and the pair closed their eyes, conversing amongst themselves.

Finally, the great scarlet dragon cracked open his gleaming eyes, shifted, and moved around Saphira until he was able to peer down at Eragon. With a mental voice that was surprisingly musical, twanging and humming as he spoke, Thorn said, "_For now, we shall travel to the Spine and set up residence there until such a time as the land has calmed. Despite your best intentions, it is my desire to experience freedom—real freedom—for the first time. But, when the time comes and Alagaesia has settled with a new monarch, we choose to accept your offer. We will go with you to hatch the new age of dragons, and to teach them as well. We must teach them not to fear. Fear is good in small amounts, but when it is a constant, pounding companion, it cuts away at who you are and makes it hard to do what you know is right."_

Nodding respectfully to the male dragon, Eragon couldn't help but smile a bit. "Thank you, Thorn."

All of a sudden, a sense of great anger, grief, and ambivalence pressed heavily against Eragon as Glaedr's consciousness enveloped his mind and, it seemed, those of Murtagh and Thorn, for they tensed, as if in anticipation for battle. Eragon had forgotten that Glaedr, along with the other Eldunarí—hidden within their invisible pocket of space—were present and listening.

"_You killed my body and you killed my rider," _said Glaedr, words bitter as an oak gall, hissing the statement that was so flat and simple, yet all the more terrible because of it. _"But I understand that it was Galbatorix who drove you to it and that it was he who swung your arm, Murtagh… I cannot forgive, but Galbatorix is dead and with him, my desire for vengeance. Yours has always been a hard path, since each of you hatched. But today, you showed that your misfortunes have not broken you. You turned against Galbatorix when it might have gained you only pain, and by it you allowed Eragon to kill him. Today, you and Thorn proved yourselves worthy of being considered Shur'tugal in full, though you never had the proper instruction or guidance. That is… admirable."_

Murtagh bowed his head slightly, and Thorn murmured, _"Thank you, Ebrithil,"_ startling even Murtagh. But he soon overcame this and glanced at Eragon. "Can you remember the name of the ancient language now, or is Galbatorix's magic still clouding your mind?"

"_The clouds remain," _Saphira answered for him, shaking her head irritably.

Then, Murtagh spoke the name of names twice: first to remove the spell of forgetfulness placed on Eragon, and then again so that Eragon and Saphira might learn the name for themselves. "We must never share it with anyone else," the elder of the two pointed out. "If every magician knew the name of the ancient language, the language would be worse than useless."

Eragon nodded in vehement agreement.

Holding out his hand, Murtagh then reached out to him, and Eragon grasped hi by the forearm. "Farewell for now… brother."

Murtagh grinned. "Let us hope it isn't too long, brother. I look forward to growing into a crotchety old man, teaching youngsters the old ways with you graying at my side."

Thorn's snort of laughter set the grass at their feet on fire.

Once more, Murtagh checked the straps on Thorn's harness before climbing into the saddle. As the dragon spread his impressive crimson wings in a ripple of muscle, the man called out, "See to it that the dwarves see the memory of why I did what I did. I truly am sorry."

With that, the sparkling red dragon took three loping steps away from the sea of nettles and leaped into the sky, leaving tracklike gouges in the soft earth below. He circled over them once, twice, three times before he turned and sailed proudly to the west, towards the Spine.

Beaming at the thought that he would soon see his brother again, Eragon took his place on Saphira's back, and they departed from the knoll and returned thence to the wreckage of Urû'baen.


	2. Chapter 2: Stargazing

**_*_creeps in looking very guilty*  
>... I had finals. Don't hate me! *cries* I didn't even have English class this semester! I had Spanish. I don't even get to <em>speak<em> in English in that class, much less write more than baby paragraphs. *pouts***

**But I'm here now, so enough of my miserable excuses. I worked hard on this, I'll have you know! CP writes flowery. I had to amend my style a bit in a rather pathetic attempt to make it seamlessly integrated. You can probably tell where I've been, messing with the laws of Fiction. :P**

**Also, this probably isn't super original. But, the whole point of this is to make it as close to 'realistic' as possible so I can pretend the book doesn't exist, remember? So I'm not messing too much with the stuff that was fine. Yes, I'm a miserable copyright violator who didn't add anything wild and crazy, but most of the first few chapters here seem fairly logical, and my plot-twisters aren't coming until (suffice to say) later. Really, there wasn't much to this chapter, and therefore not much to make original. I did my best though, and I even added a whole character, so please enjoy and bear with me until life gets going again.**

**Happy reading! :D**

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><p>Eragon wearily climbed the worn steps of the green tower. It was nearing nightfall, and through the windows that pierced the curving wall to his right, he could view the shadow-streaked buildings of Urû'baen, as well as the hazy fields outside the city and, as he spiraled around, the black mass of the stone hill that lurked behind it.<p>

Eragon wished he could have flown with Saphira to the top of the tower. Really, it didn't matter where he was. All he really wanted at that moment was to sit peacefully with Saphira and sip a cup of hot tea while watching the russet light fade from the tortured sky.

But, as always, there was work to be done.

He had seen Saphira only twice since they landed back at the citadel after parting with Murtagh and Thorn. The dragoness had spent the majority of the afternoon assisting the Varden in killing or capturing the remainder of the soldiers and, later, gather into camps the families who had fled their homes and scattered across the countryside while they waited and watched in fear that the overhang would break and fall.

The reason it had not, the elves told Eragon, was because of spells they had embedded within the stone in ages past—when Urû'baen was yet known as Ilirea—and also because of the overhang's sheer size, which rendered the blast quite insignificant in comparison.

The hill itself had helped to contain the harmful residue from the explosion, although a large amount had still escaped through the entrance to the citadel, and nearly everyone in the vicinity required magical healing, lest they sicken and die. Already, many had fallen ill. Along with the elves, Eragon had labored to save as many as possible.

At that very moment, the elves and the dwarves were walling up the front of the citadel to prevent any further contamination from seeping out and poisoning the city. (After searching the building for survivors, of course.) Once the citadel had been effectively quarantined, the elves would purge the city and the land thereabouts of the harmful residue that had settled upon it so that the area would again be safe to live in. Eragon knew he would have to help with that too.

Before he had joined in the effort to heal and place wards of protection around everyone in Urû'baen, he had spent hours using the name of the ancient language to seek out and dismantle the many spells Galbatorix had bound to the buildings and people of the city. Some enchantments seemed benign—even helpful—such as one spell whose only apparent purpose was to keep the hinges of a door from creaking, and which drew its power from an egg-sized bit of crystal set within the face of the door. But Eragon dared not leave any of the king's spells intact, no matter any harmless appearance. Especially not those placed upon those under Galbatorix's command. Among them, oaths of fealty were the most common, but there were also wards, enchantments to grand skills beyond the ordinary, and other, more mysterious spells. As Eragon had released nobles and commoners alike from their bondage, he occasionally felt a cry of anguish, as if he had taken something precious from them.

In one moment of crisis, when he had stripped Galbatorix's strictures from the Eldunarí the king had enslaved, the dragons had immediately begun to lash out and assault the minds of the people within the city, attacking savagely and without the slightest regard for who was friend or who was foe. In these moments, a great pall of the utmost dread spread over Urû'baen in a tangible wave. Even the elves crouched and turned white with fear.

In the end, Blödhgarm and his ten remaining spellcasters had tied the convoy of metal boxes that contained the Eldunarí to a pair of horses and ridden out of Urû'baen, where the dragons' thoughts were not so potent. Several of the dragons from Vroengard insisted upon accompanying them, convinced they could calm them, or at least attempt to.

As the elves and Eldunarí were fleeing the city, Arya had contacted him, casting a questioning thought from outside the ruined gate, where she was in conference with the captains of her mother's army. In that brief time when their minds touched, he could sense her desolation at Islanzadí's death, as well as the powerful regret and anger that eddied beneath her grief. He saw how her emotions threatened to overwhelm her reason, and how she struggled bitterly to restrain them for the sake of her people. In hopes to ease her suffering, Eragon sent over a series of calming emotions, sounds, and images. But he could do little more than that at the moment, and Arya, he reasoned, probably wanted to be left alone.

A sense of curious emptiness gripped the rider. In the pale fantasy, the faint hope, he had harbored of defeating Galbatorix, he had expected to feel absolutely jubilant once the deed had been done. And although he was glad—unbelievably glad—that the king was dead, he no longer knew what he was supposed to do. He had reached his goal. He had climbed the mountain that could not be climbed. And now… there was no purpose to guide him… to drive him. What were he and Saphira to make of their lives, now that they had fulfilled their purpose? What would give them meaning? Raising the next generation of riders seemed too distant a prospect to be real.

It seemed as if the stairs of the green tower would never end. He trudged upward, round and round, until the people in the streets appeared as small as ants and his calves and the backs of his ankles burned from the repetitive motion. When at last the top of the winding staircase appeared—a large lancet door, black with age—he paused to gather his thoughts and allow his breathing to slow. Then, he trudged the last few feet, lifted the latch, and pushed onward into the large round chamber atop the elven watchtower.

Waiting for him were six people, along with Saphira: the silver-haired elf lord Däthedr, King Orrin, Nasuada, King Orik, Nar Garzhvog and Grimrr Halfpaw. They stood—or in the case of Orrin, sat—in a widely spaced circle, with Saphira directly opposite the stairs, before the southern-facing window that had allowed her to land within the tower. The light from the dying sun streamed sideways through the chamber, illuminating the elven carvings upon the walls and the intricate pattern of colored stone set within the worn, chipped floor.

Except for Saphira, Nar Garzhvog, and Grimrr, everyone appeared tense and uncomfortable. Orrin sat in a deep-seated chair, holding his bandaged chest with his left hand and a cup of spiced wine with his right. He moved with exaggerated care, as if afraid of hurting himself, but his eyes were bright and clear, so Eragon guessed it was his wound, and not the drink, that made him cautious. Däthedr was tapping the pommel of his sword with one finger while Orik stood with his hands folded atop the butt of Volund's haft—the hammer rested upright on the floor before him—staring into his beard. Nasuada had her arms crossed, as if she was cold. To the right, Grimrr stared out a window, seemingly oblivious to the others while the kull appeared bored with the entire situation.

As Eragon opened the door, they all looked at him, and a smile broke across Orik's face. "Eragon!" he exclaimed, hefting Volund onto his shoulder. He then trundled over to Eragon and grasped him by the forearm. "I knew you could kill him! Well done! Tonight we celebrate, eh? Let the fires burn bright, and let our voices ring forth until the heavens themselves echo with the sound of our feasting!"

Nodding, Eragon smiled, and Orik clapped him on the arm once more before returning to his place as Eragon crossed the room to stand by Saphira.

"_Little One,"_ she murmured to him, brushing his shoulder with her snout.

He reached up and touched her hard, scaled cheek, taking comfort from her closeness. The Eldunarí she still had with her, he learned from a quick tendril of thought, were weary, and would be content with simply watching and listening to the discussion that was about to take place.

During these moments, the door once again open and shut softly, and Arya strode into the room, blinking impassively at the muttered greetings from its occupants. It was clear that no one really knew what to say to her, and her stony, emotionless face made everyone feel uncomfortable speaking to her. Orik said a few words to her in dwarvish as she took her place in the circle, but no one else said anything, and Eragon was occupied with checking on Umaroth.

When he turned around to look at her, Arya would not meet his gaze. The tightness in the skin around her deep, forest green eyes, and the hard line of her tawny throat were evidence to him of her grief and upset. Eragon wished fiercely that he could do something to ease her pain. He resolved to do so later.

No one in the room seemed willing to speak first. From the city below, Eragon heard a horse whinny. Off by the citadel came the rapping of picks and chisels. King Orrin shifted uncomfortably in his chair and sipped his wine. Grimrr scratched one pointed ear, then sniffed, as if testing the air.

Finally, Däthedr broke the silence. "We have a decision to make," he said simply.

"That we know, elf," rumbled Orik.

"Then let us proceed," Orrin said pointedly, nodding at the elf.

Däthedr inclined his head in return. "There is no hiding that Galbatorix is dead. Even now, word of our victory wings its way across the land. By the end of the week, Galbatorix's demise shall be known throughout the greater part of Alagaësia."

"As it should be," Nasuada declared. She had changed out of the tunic her jailers had given her and into a dark red dress, which made the weight she had lost during her captivity all the more apparent, for the dress hung loosely off her shoulders and her waist was painfully small. But though she appeared frail, she seemed to have regained some of her strength. When Eragon and Saphira had returned to the citadel, Nasuada had been on the verge of collapse, from both mental and physical exhaustion. The moment Jörmundur had seen her, he bundled her off to their camp, and she had spent the rest of the day in seclusion. Eragon had been unable to consult with her before the meeting, so he was not sure of her opinion on the subject they had assembled to discuss. If he had to, he would contact her directly with his thoughts, but he hoped to avoid that, for he did not want to intrude on her privacy. Not then. Not after what she had endured.

"Yes, as it should be," Däthedr agreed, his lilting voice strong and clear beneath the vaulted ceiling of that high, round chamber. "However, as people learn that Galbatorix has fallen, the first question they shall ask is who has taken his place." The elf noble looked into each of their faces. "We must provide them with an answer now, before unrest and anarchy take Alagäesia in their grip. Our queen is dead. King Orrin, you are wounded. Rumors aplenty are afoot, I am certain. It is imperative that we quell them before they cause irreparable harm. To delay would be disastrous. We cannot allow every lord with a measure of troops to believe that he can declare himself ruler of his own petty monarchy. Should that happen, the Empire would disintegrate into a hundred different kingdoms. A successor must be chosen—chosen and named, however distasteful this may be."

Internally, Eragon groaned. This would be a _very _long meeting indeed.

Without averting his pensive gaze from the window, Grimmer tossed in, "You cannot lead a pack if you are weak."

Wearing a smile that didn't touch his eyes, King Orrin spoke next. "And what part do you seek to play in this, Arya, Lord Däthedr? Or you, King Orik, Nar Garzhvog? King Halfpaw? We are grateful for your friendship and your assistance, but this is a matter for humans to decide, not you. We rule ourselves, and we do not let others choose our kings."

Nasuada rubbed her crossed arms and, to Eragon's surprise, said, "I agree. This is something we must settle on our own." She looked across the room at Arya and Däthedr with empty eyes. "Surely you can understand. You would not allow us to tell you whom you ought to appoint as your new king or queen." A glance was thrown at Orik. "Nor would the clans have allowed us to select you as Hrothgar's successor."

"No," ceded Orik. "That they wouldn't have."

"The decision is, of course, yours to make," Däthedr soothed in a carefully diplomatic voice. "We would not presume to dictate what you should or should not do. However, as your friends and allies, have we not earned the right to offer our advice upon such a weighty matter, especially when it shall affect us all? Whatever you decide will have far-reaching implications, and you would do well to understand those implications ere you make your choice."

Eragon understood well enough. It was a threat. Däthedr was saying that if they made a decision the elves disapproved of, there would be unpleasant consequences. The rider resisted the urge to scowl. This stance was only to be expected. The stakes were high, and a mistake now could end up causing problems for decades more. The slight crease between Nasuada's eyebrows told him that she was thinking along these same lines.

"You make a logical statement…" the woman said, the end of her words curling up as if she were asking a question of someone, but really didn't know whom.

For his part, Orrin simply stared into his goblet as he tilted it around, swirling the liquid within. "And how would you advise us to choose?" he asked quietly, eyes jumping with a slight spark.

The elf paused, considering. In the low, warm light of the setting sun, his silver hair glowed in a diffuse halo around his head. "Whoever is to wear the crown must have the skill and experience needed to rule effectively from the start. There is no time to instruct someone in the ways of command, nor can we afford the mistakes of a novice. In addition, this person must be morally fit to assume such a high office; he or he must be an acceptable choice to the warriors of the Varden and, to a lesser extent, the people of the Empire; and if at all possible, this person should also be one whom we and your other allies will find agreeable."

"You limit our choices a great deal with your requirements," Orrin warned, looking up.

"They merely make for good statesmanship. Or do you see it differently?"

"I see several options you have overlooked or disregarded, but you are correct in saying you would find them distasteful. It is of no consequence. Please continue."

Däthedr's catlike eyes narrowed, but his voice remained as smooth as ever. "The most obvious choice—and the one the people of the Empire will likely expect—" he continued, "will be the person who actually killed Galbatorix. That is, Eragon."

The air in the chamber grew brittle, as if it were made of glass. Everyone looked at Eragon, even Saphira and Grimrr, and he could feel Umaroth and the other Eldunarí observing him closely too. He stared back at the people around him, neither frightened nor angered by their scrutiny. With particular attention, he scrutinized the faces of Nasuada and Arya for a hint as to their individual reactions, but it was as he expected. Aside from the seriousness of their expressions, he could discern nothing of what either one thought or felt.

It was unsettling, really, to realize that Däthedr was correct; he could become—and was even anticipated to be—the new king. For a moment, Eragon allowed himself to entertain the possibility. There was no one who could stop him from taking the throne, except perhaps Elva or Murtagh—but he now knew how to counter Elva's ability, and Murtagh no longer had the advantage of the Eldunarí. Saphira, he sensed from his mind, would not oppose him, whatever he chose. And though he could not read Nasuada's expression, he had a strange feeling that, for the first time, she would be willing to step aside and allow him to take command.

"_But what do _you _choose?" _Saphira prompted in the privacy of their shared consciousness.

Eragon sighed. _"I want… to be of use. I want to help the people of Alagaësia. But power and domination over others—those things that Galbatorix sought—they hold little appeal for me. In any case, we have other responsibilities. Becoming king would take even our own freedom away."_

Shifting his attention back to those watching, the rider said firmly, "No. It would not be right."

King Orrin grunted and took another swig of his wine, while Arya, Däthedr, and Nasuada seemed to visibly relax, if only slightly. Nar Garzhvog grunted his approval, muttering, "It takes great strength to resist the lure of strength greater still." Like them, the Eldunarí seemed pleased with his decision, although they did not comment upon it with words.

"I am glad to hear you say this," Däthedr admitted. "No doubt you would make a fine ruler, but I do not think it would be good for your kind, nor for the other races of Alagaësia, were another Dragon Rider to assume the throne."

In the poignant silence that followed, Arya stirred and motioned to Däthedr. The silver-haired elf stepped back slightly, and Arya neutrally said, "Roran would be another obvious choice."

"_Roran?_" exclaimed Eragon, incredulous.

Arya gazed at him, her eyes solemn and—in the sideways light—bright and fierce, like emeralds cut in a rayed pattern. "It was by his actions that the Varden captured Urû'baen. He I the hero of Aroughs and of many other battles besides. The Varden and the entirety of the empire would follow him without hesitation."

"He has a tendency to be rude and overconfident. I also question that he hasn't the experience needed," Orrin cut in. Glancing over at Eragon with a slightly guilty expression, he added hastily, "He is a peerless warrior, though."

Arya blinked once, like an owl. "I believe you would find that his rudeness depends upon those he is dealing with… your Majesty. However, you are correct; Roran lacks the experience needed. That leaves but two choices then: you, Nasuada, and you, King Orrin.

King Orrin shifted again in his deep-seated chair, and his brow furrowed more severely than before, while Nasuada's expression remained unchanged.

"I assume," Orrin spoke, his words directed towards Nasuada, "that you wish to assert your claim."

She lifted her small rounded chin. "I do." Her voice was as calm as smooth water.

Rolling the stem of his goblet between his fingers, Orrin said, "As do I. However…" He paused dramatically. "I would renounce my claim for a boon that I would have you grant me."

Arya looked back and forth between the two, silent as death. King Orrin might not have recognized it, but Eragon saw her cold, hard demeanor for what it was: a readiness to strike and kill at a moment's notice, should Orrin suddenly turn on them. A habit born of years of war, no doubt.

"Why would you require a boon of me, Orrin?" Nasuada queried.

"Why?" The Surdan King chuckled humorlessly, and yet passively. "My people have housed, fed, and equipped the Varden. They have fought and died alongside your warriors and, as a country, we have risked far more than the Varden. The Varden have no home; if Galbatorix had defeated Eragon and the dragons, you could have fled and hidden yourselves. But we had nowhere to go other than Surda. Galbatorix would have fallen upon us like a bolt from on high, and he would have laid waste to the entire region. We wagered _everything_—our families, our homes, our wealth, and our freedom—and after all that, after all our sacrifices, I will not be sent back to return to our fields with no other rewards than a pat on the head and your royal thanks. We have watered the ground between here and the Burning Plains with our blood, and I believe that we are entitled to more than a simple boon, but a simple boon is all I ask for."

Orrin's words did not seem to upset Nasuada; indeed, she looked thoughtful, almost sympathetic. For a long while, no one said anything. But then, the dark-skinned woman finally said, "Orrin… your concerns are reasonable. You are right; the Surdans have contributed much to our cause. I freely admit that without your help, we never would have been able to attack the Empire as we did, and you deserve recompense for what you have risked, spent, and lost over the course of this war. I would hear the boon that you wish granted."

Appearing satisfied, Orrin nodded. "Territory," he declared simply. "I wish that the cities of Aroughs, Feinster, Melian, and Belatona become part of Surda. My people will have access to new resources and living space, and I will renounce my claim to the crown of Alagaësia."

Nasuada considered, biting at her lower lip. "You're already gaining two port cities with Feinster and Aroughs. Instead of Belatona, I'll grant you Furnost. Then you'll have the whole of Lake Tüdosten, even as I will have the whole of Leona Lake."

"Leona is more valuable than Tüdosten, as it grants access to the mountains and the northern coast," Orrin pointed out.

"Aye, but you will have access to Leona Lake from Dauth and the Jiet River."

During this time, the sun outside had slipped below the edge of the horizon, leaving a few attenuate clouds illuminated by its light. The sky began to darken, and the first few stars appeared in the gloaming: faint pinpricks of light that flickered in and out of existence as the smoke from the burned city wafted below them. But Orrin was barely silent long enough for Eragon to take this in.

"Very well," Orrin agreed with an almost-smile on his face. "I accept your boon… your Majesty."

A shiver passed through the room at the last two words.

Her expression somber, Nasuada walked forward until she stood in the center of the open room. Then Orik struck the butt of Volund's haft against the floor and proclaimed, "The King is dead, long live the Queen!"

"The King is dead, long live the Queen!" cried, Eragon, Arya, Däthedr, Nar Garzhvog, and Grimrr. The werecat's lips stretched, baring his sharp fangs, and Saphira uttered a loud, triumphant bugle, which echoed off the angled ceiling and out over the dusk-ridden city below. A sense of approval emanated from the Eldunarí.

Nasuada stood tall and proud, her eyes gleaming with tears in the graying light. "Thank you," she said, and looked at each of them, holding their gaze. Still, her thoughts seemed to be directed elsewhere, and about her was an air of sadness that Eragon doubted the others noticed.

And, as fast as the meeting had begun, it ended. Few by few, the occupants of the tower descended the steps to attend to each of their respective people. Eragon remained to speak with each of them as they departed, accepting both congratulations and friendly banter alike. As he watched the last of those in the tower, Lord Däthedr (whom he rather liked), disappear through the aged door, Eragon realized that Arya still had not left.

Curious, the rider glanced around the room, only to find the elf woman standing by Saphira, her face angled towards the stars.

"We can see the stars quite well from here, considering the smoke," he commented quietly, moving to stand at Arya's side as Saphira yawned and shuffled away from the large window, curling up behind him.

Arya nodded, her expression unfathomable. She was reticent for a while, during which time Eragon sat himself on the ground against Saphira's side and watched the elf's face, desperately wishing that he could relieve her of her pain.

"This morning, I didn't truly believe I would live to see the stars again," Arya ceded quietly, her musical voice barely more than a whisper.

"I hadn't time to wonder if I would live to see another day," Eragon sighed. "I suppose… I suppose that I never thought I would defeat Galbatorix. And now that we have…" He shrugged, not feeling the need to finish. Arya would understand.

True to his prediction, it appeared that she did. With fluid grace, Arya carefully sat down where she stood, turning her gaze from the stars to Eragon's face. The torches in the room had begun to flicker and dim by the time she spoke. "I am proud of you, Eragon, for doing what you did. Very few people believed that you could do it, and yet… here we are. We're alive. This isn't the only occasion I have to thank you for that fact, either." At this conclusion, the corner of Arya's mouth twitched into the smallest of smiles.

Eragon smiled back. "Atra du evarínya, Arya svit-kona. The favor has been returned more times than my pride cares to admit." Saphira laughed softly at that, but Eragon knew she was far too tired to attempt to goad him further.

In response, Arya's smile twitched a bit in amusement, but she didn't laugh, her eyes harboring a flicker of distance.

"Arya I…" Eragon hesitated as the woman's gaze slid to his, suddenly feeling as if she were alien to him. He realized he didn't know what to say to her, but started talking despite this. "I am sorry, about your mother. And… and I know that nothing that anyone could say or do could make losing her any less painful. I just hope that you're aware… Saphira and I will always be here, for whatever you need."

The expression on Arya's face remained guarded and unreadable.

At this point, Saphira saw fit to intervene, lifting her great head from the stone floor and turning to face Arya. _"Eragon and I have found," _she began, her voice unusually tame, _"that sharing blood is not the only means of family. During our time amongst the living, each and every one of us is given the opportunity to choose our own family. And the bonds of trust and friendship are just as strong as those of blood. You _are _a part of our family, little elf. That is what my… eloquent… rider was _attempting _to say."_

"Oh, what would I do without you Saphira?" Eragon harrumphed teasingly, tickling at his dragon.

"_Shock and dismay everyone with your inability to speak coherently, I expect."_

The unwilling smile gracing Arya's sculpted lips pulled a bit wider. "You honor me, Saphira Brightscales, Eragon Kingkiller," she murmured, dipping her head to each in turn.

And after that, there was no more need to speak. Elf and rider and dragon simply sat in companionable quiet until the moon reached its zenith, and they each parted ways for the evening, knowing full well that the day the morning light would bring would be the dawn of a new era that they themselves had brought about and lived to see.

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><p><strong>... So? Howdja like it? You can see what I was rambling about on the top, right? There wasn't too much that needed serious fixing. (Aside from Orrin, but being the all-powerful authoress, I spiked his random cup of wine with a healthy dose of Valium, so he's calmer now.)<strong>

_Please review! And if you have any suggestions for further changes, I would absolutely love to hear them, and will include them if they fit with my existing plotline! You guys are wonderful! AND the 50th reviewer gets the dedication, just like I Am Arya!_


	3. Chapter 3: A Second Stop

**Happy new year, everyone! :D**

**Last night, at my new year's party, I discovered the beauty of party crackers. I believe that they originate from Britain? I got a whistle and a purple paper crown! *excited***

**But enough of that. I need to lecture right now.**

**People. This fic is on the alert lists of _63 different people_ and for last chapter, _I only got 6 reviews._ What is this? Come on now, you all know how I absolutely _live_ for reviews! I know I took a few weeks in updating, but my goodness, I don't really deserve _that _now do I? A huge thank you to the six of you who did review, and a frowny face to those of you who didn't. I expected better from you.**

**Now back to this chapter! I had fun with this one. I really did. Of course, I don't have a beta and I wrote the majority of this at 2am, so I feel I have to give you fair warning. Here there be monsters. XD Enjoy!**_  
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><p><em>Eragon,<em>

_ It is childish of me, really, but I hadn't anything left in me to tell you this in person, much less argue my decisions with you. (We all know how much you favor your incessant lines of questioning.) And of all people, I think you are the one most capable of convincing me to change my mind, not that I ever would. But I could not leave without at least writing to you. After all that's happened, it would not be right._

_ As I previously mentioned, I am leaving Urû'baen. Already, I have tarried for far too long. It is my duty as a daughter to accompany the body of my mother back to Du Weldenvarden, so she might receive the funeral rites befitting of a Queen. I tell you in great confidence that even if this weren't the case, I have little left here to keep me aside from diplomacy, which can easily be handled by another. In any event, with both Galbatorix and my mother having passed into the void, I no longer wish to continue as ambassador to the Varden. Rather, I wish to resume my task of ferrying a dragon egg throughout the land, as I did with Saphira's. In all honesty… the freedom of the travel and proximity to a dragon, even if it is in an egg, is something that has always made me happy. I want to feel that way again._

_ As for the egg itself, there is nothing but the obvious choice of the one we salvaged from the ruins of Galbatorix's citadel. And because Saphira chose you, a human, to be her Rider, and Thorn Murtagh, it is only right that an elf should be the next rider. That is, if the dragon within this egg agrees. I wish to give it that chance without delay. Already, it has spent far too long within its shell. Since there are many more eggs elsewhere—I shall not name the place—I desperately hope that you do not believe I have acted presumptuously or that I have been overly prejudiced in favor of my own race. I consulted with the Eldunarí upon this matter, and they agreed with my decision. In all honesty, my rush to leave is motivated by my own inadequacies. Otherwise, I would have awaited yours and Saphira's return to make my escape. I can only beg your forgiveness, Eragon._

_ Also to be addressed is the vacancy left as ambassador. Däthedr and I have appointed as my replacement a young elf by the name of Vanir, whom you met during your time in Ellesméra. He has expressed a desire to learn more about the people of your race, and that seems to me as good a reason as any for him to have the post—so long as he does not prove completely incompetent, that is. It is certainly better a reason than mine was._

_ One day soon, perhaps when the egg hatches and I bring the new rider to you, I would like to watch the stars with you and Saphira again. But until such a time should come to pass, I wish you well on your travels, as I hope you wish me well on mine._

_ With My Regards,  
><em>_Arya_

Exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, Eragon carefully folded the letter that had arrived for him in a burst of magical emerald light into a neat little square. Saphira gazed at him with sparkling azure eyes, but left him in peace. The pair of them were settled in a grand meeting hall, courtesy of the nobles of Feinster. Not ten minutes before, Eragon had been busy freeing the people still bound to a dead king, and the room had been full and bustling. But now, it was as silent and empty as a tranquil pool of clear water, as he had sent everyone away once the small parcel had flown in through a nearby window, gleaming like a firefly. The rider was extremely pleased that Arya had thought enough of him to write, and especially that she had taken the effort to transport the letter to him through magic. But even as Arya wished that he would forgive her (like he would ever consider the opposite), Eragon wished that she could have waited until their return before she departed. With her gone, there would be a hole in his world, and though he still had Roran and Katrina, as well as Nasuada, the aching emptiness within him refused to subside, even now, when he had only just learned that they would be so long apart.

_"Little One, it is not as if you have spent much time _together_ these past few weeks either," _Saphira pointed out, nosing him gently.

_"I know Saphira," _Eragon sighed, tapping at her snout. _"But something is better than nothing," _he told her, before thinking back on all that had happened.

After their victory at Urû'baen, the pair of them had never stopped working. For four days after it was decided that Nasuada would become queen, Eragon and Saphira had remained in the city, assisting in establishing the Varden's presence there and throughout the surrounding area. Much of that time they had spent dealing with the inhabitants of the city—usually placating crowds who were furious with some action of the Varden's—and hunting groups of soldiers who had fled Urû'baen and were preying upon travelers, peasants, and nearby estates to support themselves. He and Saphira had also participated in the effort to rebuild the city's massive front gate, and at Nasuada's behest, he cast several spells designed to prevent those still loyal to Galbatorix from working against her. The spells applied only to the people within the city and the adjacent lands, but having them in place made everyone in the Varden feel that much safer.

It was during this time that Eragon had noticed that the Varden, the dwarves, and even the elves treated him and Saphira differently than they had before Galbatorix's death. They were more respectful and deferential—especially the humans—and they regarded him and Saphira with what he slowly came to understand as a sense of awe. He had enjoyed it at first—Saphira hadn't seemed to care one way or another—but it began to bother him when he realized that many of the dwarves and humans were so eager to please him, they would tell him whatever they thought he wanted to hear and not the actual truth. The discover had unsettled him; he had felt, and still felt, unable to trust anyone other than Arya, Roran, Katrina, Nasuada, Orik, Horst, and of course, Saphira.

He had seen little of Arya during those days. The few times they had met, she had seemed withdrawn, which he knew very well was her way of dealing with her grief. He remembered this clearly from when he had first met her (conscious, of course). A few times, they had had the opportunity to talk alone, but nothing Eragon could do was enough to break the elf woman's shell, never mind the aching melancholy beneath. Still, he had made it his goal to elicit a smile from her each time they met. Arya had known this, and Eragon suspected that it was the intention itself that had pulled the smile into being, because Saphira assured him that while he was a buffoon, his attempts and humor were more pathetic than funny.

As for Nasuada, she had seemed to regain much of her former drive, spirit, and energy after a single night's sleep, which had amazed Eragon. His opinion of her had increased tremendously upon hearing her account of her ordeal in the Hall of the Soothsayer, as did his regard for Murtagh, of whom Nasuada spoke not a word thereafter, despite the fact that Eragon had received word from his fellow rider that he and Thorn were safe and awaiting Eragon's call. She had complimented Eragon on his leadership of the Varden in her absence—although he had protested that he had been absent the majority of that time—and thanked him for rescuing her as quickly as he had, for as she admitted late in their conversation, Galbatorix had nearly succeeded in breaking her.

Upon the third day, Nasuada was coroneted in a great square near the center of the city, in full view of a vast crowd of humans, dwarves, elves, werecats, and Urgals. The explosion that had ended Galbatorix's life had destroyed the ancient crown of the Broddrings, so the dwarves had forged a new crown from gold found in the city and from jewels the elves had taken from their helms or from the pommels of their swords. The ceremony was simple, but it was all the more effective for it. Nasuada had approached on foot from the direction of the ruined citadel. She had worn a dress of royal purple—cut short at the elbows so that all might see the scars that lined her forearms—with a train fringed with mink, which Elva had carried, for Eragon had heeded his brother's advice and insisted that the girl stay as close to Nasuada as possible.

A slow drumbeat had sounded a Nasuada walked up to the dais that had been erected in the center of the square. At the top of the dais, next to the carved chair that would serve as her throne, Eragon had stood, with Saphira close behind. In front of the raised platform were the kings Orrin, Orik, and Grimrr, along with Arya, Däthedr, and Nar Garzhvog.

Nasuada had ascended the dais, and then knelt before Eragon and Saphira. A dwarf of Orik's clan then presented Eragon with the newly made crown, which he placed upon Nasuada's head. Then, Saphira had arched her neck and, with her snout, touched Nasuada upon the brow. As one, both she and Eragon had said:

_"Rise now as queen, Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad and Nadara."_

A fanfare of trumpets rang forth, and the gathered crowd—which had been deathly silent—had begun to cheer. It was a strange cacophony, Eragon remembered, what with the bellows of Urgals intermingled with the melodious voices of the elves.

Then, Nasuada had sat upon the throne. King Orrin came before her and swore his allegiance, followed by Arya, King Orik, Grimrr Halfpaw, and Nar Garzhvog, who each pledged the friendship of their respective races.

The event affected Eragon strongly. He had found himself holding back tears as he gazed at Nasuada sitting regnant on her throne. Only with her coronation had it felt as if the specter of Galbatorix's oppression had finally begun to recede.

Afterward, they feasted, and the Varden and their allies had celebrated throughout the night and into the next day. Eragon honestly remembered little of the festivities, save the dancing of the elves, the pounding of the dwarves' drums, and the four kull who had climbed a tower along the city wall and there stood blowing horns made from the skulls of their fathers. The people of the city had joined in the celebrations as well, and among them, Eragon saw relief and jubilation that Galbatorix was no longer king. And underlying their emotions, and those of everyone present, was an awareness of the importance of the moment, for they knew they were witnessing the end of one age and the beginning of another.

Upon the fifth day, when the gate was nearly rebuilt and the city seemed reasonably secure, Nasuada had ordered Eragon and Saphira to fly to Dras-Leona, and thence to Belatona, Feinster, and Aroughs, and in each place to use the name of the ancient language to release from their oaths everyone who had sworn fealty to Galbatorix. He and Saphira took with them over half the Eldunarí from Vroengard; the rest remained behind with the hearts of hearts that had been rescued from Galbatorix's treasure room. Blödhgarm and his spellcasters—who were no longer bound to defend Eragon and Saphira—moved those Eldunarí to a castle several miles northeast of Urû'baen, where it would be easy to protect the hearts against any who might seek to steal them, and where the thoughts of the mad dragons would not affect the minds of any but their caretakers.

When they had arrived at Dras-Leona, Eragon was astounded by the number of spells he found woven throughout the city, as well as in the dark tower of stone, Helgrind. Many of them, he guessed, were hundreds of years old, if not older: forgotten enchantments from ages past. He had left those that seemed harmless and removed those that did not, but oftentimes it was difficult to tell, and he was reluctant to tamper with spells whose purpose he did not understand. But with the help of the Eldunarí, he was able to determine which was which in several cases.

But when it came to Helgrind and the various holdings of the priests—who had gone into hiding as soon as news of Galbatorix's demise had reached them—Eragon did not bother expending the effort of determining which spells were dangerous and which were not; he removed them all. He had also used the name of names to search for the belt of Beloth the Wise in the ruins of the great cathedral, but without success.

They had stayed in Dras-Leona for three days before proceeding to Belatona. There too Eragon had removed Galbatorix's enchantments, and then moved on to Feinster, where he had evaded an attempted assassination via poisoned drink. His wards had protected him from death flawlessly, but the incident had angered Saphira.

_"If I ever corner the rat-coward who did this, I'll eat him alive from the toes up!"_

It wasn't three hours after this incident that Arya's letter had burst into his life, landing him in his current position in the empty conference hall with nothing but his lovely dragon, an achy heart, and worry for someone he loved very much. Time after his halfhearted return letter seemed to pass in a blur.

Compared to Feinster, his stay in Aroughs was pleasant and peaceful. He and Saphira even shared the longest bout of laughter he'd had in weeks at the sight of what Roran had done to the city with just a couple of barges.

They resolved never to let him near so much as a raft ever again.

On the return trip to Urû'baen, Eragon suggested a change of direction. Saphira agreed and altered her course, tilting so the horizon stood on end and the world was divided equally between the dark blue sky and the green and brown earth.

It took several hours of searching, but at last Saphira found the cluster of sandstone hills and, among them, one hill in particular: a tall, sloping mound of reddish stone with a cave halfway up its side. And upon its crest, a radiant tomb of diamond.

The hill appeared exactly as Eragon remembered, as if time had simply stopped moving. When he gazed upon it, he felt his chest grow tight with remembered fear and agony.

Saphira landed next to the tomb. Her claws scraped against the pitted stone, chipping off flakes.

With slow fingers, Eragon unbuckled his legs. Then he slid to the ground. A wave of dizziness passed through him at the smell of the warm stone, and for a moment, he felt as if he really _were_ in the past.

Shaking himself, Eragon cleared his mind. He walked slowly to the tomb and peered into its crystal depths, and there he saw Brom.

There he saw his father.

Brom's appearance had not changed. The diamond that encased his body shielded him from the ravages of time, and his flesh showed no hint of decay. The skin of his lined face was firm, and it had a rosy tint, as if hot blood still coursed beneath the surface. At any moment, it seemed as if Brom might open his eyes and rise to his feet, ready to continue on their unfinished journey. In a way, he had become deathless, for he no longer aged as others did, but would remain forever the same, caught in a dreamless sleep.

Brom's sword lay atop his chest and the long white pennant of his beard, with his hands folded over the hilt, just as Eragon had placed them. By his side was his gnarled staff, carved, Eragon now realized, with dozens of glyphs from the ancient language.

Tears welled in Eragon's eyes. He fell to his knees and sat in silent vigil for a timeless while. He heard Saphira join him, felt her with his mind, and he knew that she too mourned Brom's passing. It was terrible for Eragon to know that Brom had come _so close _to living to see his life's dream become realized. Galbatorix was dead: they had done it. It was a desperate hope, but Eragon hoped nevertheless that wherever he was, Brom knew this.

At last, Eragon heaved himself to his feet and leaned against the edged of the tomb as he studied the shape of Brom's face. Now that he knew what to look for, he could see the similarities between their features, blurred and obscured by age and by Brom's beard, but still unmistakable. The angle of Brom's cheekbones, the crease between his eyebrows, the way his upper lip curved; all those Eragon recognized. He had not inherited Brom's hooked nose, however. He nose he had gotten from his mother.

"_Would he even recognize us now? After everything that's happened?"_ he asked of Saphira in a voice quiet with pain.

"_Of course he would," _Saphira huffed. _"You are his son."_ She touched him with her snout. _"Besides, your face isn't so different that he would mistake you for someone else, even if your scent has changed."_

"_It has?"_

"_You smell more like an elf now… Anyway, he would hardly think I was Shruikan or Glaedr, now would he?"_

"_No."_

Eragon sniffed and pushed himself off the tomb. "Ah," he sighed to Saphira. "I didn't think this would be so difficult."

"_It would be strange if it were not." _He felt her warm breath ruffle the hair on the top of his head as she touched his back with the side of her muzzle.

Smiling weakly, Eragon gathered up his courage to look at Brom again. "Father," he said quietly. The word tasted strange in his mouth; he had never had cause to say it to anyone before. Then Eragon shifted his gaze to the runes he had set into the spire at the head of the tomb, which read:

_HERE LIES BROM_

_Who was a Dragon Rider_

_And like a father_

_To me._

_May his name live on in glory._

He smiled painfully at how close he had come to the truth. Then he spoke in the ancient language, and he watched the diamond shimmer and flow as a new pattern of runes formed upon its surface. When he finished, the inscription had changed to:

_HERE LIES BROM_

_Who was_

_A Rider bonded to_

_The dragon Saphira._

_Son of Holcomb and Nelda,_

_Beloved of Selena,_

_Father of Eragon Shadeslayer,_

_Founder of the Varden,_

_And Bane of the Forsworn._

_May his name live on in glory._

_Stydja unin mor'ranr._

It was a less personal epitaph, but it seemed more fitting to Eragon. Then he cast several spells to protect the diamond from thieves and vandals.

He continued to stand next to the tomb, reluctant to turn away and feeling as if there ought to be something _more_—some event or emotion or realization that would make it easier for him to say farewell to his father and thus to leave.

At last he put his hand atop the cool diamond, wishing that he could reach through it to touch Brom one final time. And he then murmured, "Thank you for everything you taught me."

Saphira snorted and bowed her head until her snout tapped against the hard jewel, which seemed to flare and glitter more brightly for a heartbeat before she pulled away.

Then Eragon turned and, with a sense of finality, he slowly climbed onto Saphira's back.

He was somber for a time as Saphira took off and flew northeast, towards Urû'baen. When the patch of sandstone hills was no more than a smudge on the horizon, he let out a long breath and looked up into the azure sky thoughtfully. _"Saphira…" _He hesitated. _"I think that we should make one last stop."_

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><p>The sight before him filled Eragon with a mixture of quiet awe and boundless joy. Even Saphira was impressed.<p>

"_Little One," _she breathed, bringing her face as close as possible to the nearest flower. _"They are even more beautiful than you remember."_

Sitting cross-legged on the ground between a few of the lilies, Eragon traced a finger over the gleaming golden petal, peering appreciatively into the jewel-lined throat. Against everything he knew in the world, the gilded lilies had not only survived, but also spread. The hollow in which he and Arya had once made camp was filled with glittering metal, and they had even begun to creep up the hillside, shining with incomparable beauty in the noonday sun.

"It is a pity that once someone stumbles across them, the flowers will be picked immediately and not a single one will be left alive," Eragon sighed, getting gracefully to his feet. A breath of wind ruffled his hair and sent the lilies bobbing. Specks of light cast off their surfaces danced across his feet.

Saphira snorted in delight at this effect. _"They will not be so easy to destroy, I think, but only time will tell," _she said carefully. _"Perhaps we should uproot one ourselves."_

Eragon raised an eyebrow at her.

"_We should send it to Ellesméra, to be planted in the gardens there," _Saphira suggested. _"There, it would be safe from anyone who would wish to pick it. And we both know the elves' regards for flowers besides."_

Opening his mouth to respond, Eragon spotted something and grinned widely at the dragon.

"_Might I ask what is so amusing?" _Saphira inquired irritably, eying him.

"_The scale on your snout is regrowing."_

Her delight was evident. Then she sniffed and said, _"I always knew it would. Why would it not?"_ But Eragon was close enough to her warm, shimmering side that he could feel her humming in contentment.

Shaking his head, Eragon reached for his pack and rummaged around inside until he found a shabby bit of paper that hadn't been written upon yet, as well as the quill and quarter-full bottle of ink he kept with him at Nasuada's insistence.

_Arya,_

_As soon as I received your first letter, I sent a reply along to Vanir, who assured me that he would get it to you. I hope that I have done nothing to offend you, or that you simply, for some unknown reason, did not receive it, for I have not yet received a reply for a fortnight._

_On another note, please do not be alarmed that I have managed to send this letter and enclosed package through the wards of Du Weldenvarden. I don't know if you're aware of this, but Oromis set aide an area in his hut for just this purpose. He told me that he kept it as a safety measure, should he have needed to communicate with Brom. He never deactivated it. Someone should find this within a day or two, by my estimation, and I hope they will get it to you._

_Enclosed is a little gift, of which I discovered many, just as you predicted. The sight really is most beautiful. I found myself missing you very much indeed when I saw it though. One day, we must visit here together._

_One day, I'll send you a letter with proper paper as well. I really do need to keep more with me._

_Vanir learns well in Urû'baen, but he is very different from you. Nasuada pretends that she does not care nor notice, but I know she misses you. I know she misses Murtagh. I think he misses her just as much._

_As soon as I send this to you, I will be returning to Urû'baen. From there, I expect I will be went to Gil'ead and Cuenon. I have never traveled to Cuenon, but I hear it is beautiful there._

_But enough of that. How do your own travels fare? I hope that the green egg has hatched, or will soon. Being a rider is a lonely thing when there are so few of us, even if Saphira and I are together. She always assures me that flying with another dragon is even more wonderful than flying alone, although flying is so wonderful in and of itself that I find it hard to believe her. I hope more so that you are happy, Arya. No one deserves happiness more than you. Remembering how much you love the gardens of Tiadarí Hall, I hope that this new addition will bring you the utmost joy._

_Always Yours,_

_Eragon_

With brisk movements, said rider folded the letter and tied it shut with a scrap of ribbon. Saphira, while he had been occupied in writing his letter, had been carefully picking her way through the flowers, peering critically at each one until she found one that met her standards.

"_Send this one to Little One, Little One," _she instructed, indicating it with her nose.

Eragon did a mock bow to her and moved to her side. Delicately, the rider dug his hands into the soil around the pale stem of the admittedly impressive specimen and pulled it up, roots intact. Predictably, they appeared to be composed of silver.

Ceasing his admiration of the beautiful gilded lily, Eragon went to Saphira's saddlebags and tore a strip of cloth from a spare tunic and poured water over it until it was suitably drenched. This he slowly wrapped around the roots and clinging soil lumps of the flower to protect them. Pinning the letter to this selfsame wrapping, Eragon gathered his strength, and some from the Eldunarí, and spoke a few words of the ancient language. With a blast of cerulean fire, the lily and Arya's letter popped out of existence, and he sagged a bit before straightening.

"_It is time to depart, before the day grows too old."_

"_I know. I love you Saphira."_

"_I love you too, Little One."_

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><p><strong>And that is that. Next chapter will include some Ayra POV! *wild cheering*<strong>

**And, if you guys want, I might even slip in a few letters of correspondence with Murtagh and Nasuada. Who'd like that?**

**Books rule. So do movies. And cookies. Cheerio!**

_(And don't forget to pleasepleasepleaseplease review! *pathetic tears stream down face as I beg shamelessly*)_**  
><strong>


	4. Chapter 4: Letters and Replies

_This chapter is dedicated to the 50th reviewer, cloudseeker6729. I don't really know him/her, but I have noticed that they are quite fond of the letter z! Anywho, everyone congratulate them, and send them a basketful of hugs and warm slices of delicious cake!_**  
><strong>

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><p><strong>This actually came surprisingly quickly. *shock* I got <em>such<em> a wonderful response to my plea for reviews that I posted early. Thank you to all of you, you're all absolutely _wonderful!_**

**Also, I have a LOT of original content in this chapter. Feel free to rip it apart, because the only things I love more than criticism are reviews... and chocolate. Anywho, it isn't very good, but I hope I'll do better for you next time. 'Specially the Murtagh parts...**

_**Attention writers! I have a plot bunny that is DYING to get out! But I don't have time to actually WRITE it! *distress* So, if anyone is planning on writing an Inheritance Cycle fic with HUGE potential, just PM me and I can FINALLY get the bunny out of my head, knowing it will be going to a loving home! :O**_

**As for the chapter... Well, I'll see you guys at the bottom, deal? Enjoy. :)**

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><p>With a sigh, Arya sat back onto her heels and surveyed her handiwork with a critical eye, brushing a few stray strands of hair away from her face. "What do you think of it, Fírnen?" she asked, gesturing to the new bed she had just finished constructing that stood in the corner where Oromis' had once been.<p>

The green dragon hatchling, barely as tall than her hip, looked at her blankly. _"A… nest?"_ he asked hesitantly, unsure of what the proper response would be.

"Close enough," Arya laughed, tapping him on his nose. It had taken the greater part of a day to remove Oromis' personal effects from the house on the crags, which had been taken by a few distant relatives of his. And it had taken the better part of the rest of the week for the elf to bring in everything she needed to make it temporarily her own. It had been particularly challenging to disassemble a simple bed from the servant's quarters and reconstruct it in the little house she would be calling her own until Fírnen had grown. In fact, for two weeks after her arrival in Ellesméra, Arya had simply curled up on the floor with Fírnen to sleep at nights in an attempt at procrastination.

And yet despite this slight discomfort, these past few weeks had been the happiest Arya had experienced in a very, very long while.

Suddenly, Fírnen's gracefully formed head snapped up and angled towards the door. "_Two-legs-silver-tongues," _he informed his rider shortly, blinking.

Sure enough, a sharp rap sounded at the door. Sighing again and hastily smoothing out her hair in a vain attempt to make herself appear semi-presentable in the presence nobility, Arya opened the door and plastered a false smile onto her features. "Welcome back, Lord Däthedr. Rinéa. Elésme. Rhuthr. Findar." The names continued on for a while, as a grand total of eleven elven elders had gathered at her doorstep, as they had every day for six days hence.

Fírnen, knowing from experience that he was in for long hours of endless political ramblings if he followed his rider outside with the 'two-legs-silver-tongues', huffed irritably and flopped onto the bare earth of the floor. His impromptu name for the politicians was not an affectionate one.

Carefully, Arya stepped from the confined space of the doorway and leaned casually against the outside of the house, appearing as emotionless as ever.

"I take it that you still have not changed your mind regarding our offer," one of the elves predicted, clasping his hands together.

Arya dipped her head respectfully. "You have yet to convince me, Lord Findar," she said simply.

In response to this, Däthedr sighed. "Drottningü, you know as well as we do that you are the best choice to become queen," he pointed out.

"It would be wrong for me to accept," the elf woman replied firmly. "I'm no longer a princess. I am a dragon rider, and as such, it would be immoral of me to accept. A violation of the trust of Alagaësia's races."

"The world is changing," another elf retorted calmly. "Riders will change as well. They cannot be as distant as they once were, because there are too few of you to stand alone. It will be centuries, if ever, before that will be possible again. And it is _you _whom the älfakyn have chosen to lead, not another."

Eyes flashing, Arya snapped back, "And what of what _I _want? Do I have no say in the matter? I am replaceable as queen, and the scarcity of riders is _exactly_ the reason why I cannot abandon them, or the dragons."

"We have need of you, Arya."

"As do the riders."

Silence reigned for a while, as the elves stared at Arya, and she gazed fiercely back.

_"Should I eat them?"_ Fírnen suggested to her in the privacy of their mind, poking his nose out the door and fixating on her with his bright forest eyes.

"_That would certainly be amusing, but unfortunately, that won't be necessary,"_ she told him, doing her best not to grin at the mental image of the little dragon, a little over a month old, attempting to do so.

It was Däthedr who finally broke the impasse. "You took the Yawë Arya," he said, deadly quiet. "This is your duty."

Slowly, the rider exhaled, having to think of a way around what he had just told her. It had become more difficult to resist effectively every day.

But as far as she could tell, there was none _this_ day. Not a valid one, other than that she couldn't abandon the dragons. But she didn't know if the elves gathered before her would accept that argument again. What's more, Arya was forced to admit to herself that the elf lord was _right_. She _had_ accepted the Yawë, which was the binding symbol of utter devotion to her people. And yet now, she was branded with the silver palm of the riders as well. The question was, where was she most needed? With the elves, or with Eragon?

_"Fírnen, could they really need me so much that they would be willing to accept a dragon rider as their queen?" _she asked of her dragon.

Said dragon sniffed disdainfully. _"Yes. They'd be foolish not to want you to lead them, princess."_

Arya winced. Surprisingly, her bonded partner had just proved himself beyond unhelpful for the first time.

But just as she opened her mouth to deliver a weak retort, an explosion and bright flash of sapphire blue shook Oromis' hut, causing Fírnen to roar in shock and alarm. Drawing her sword and screaming for her dragon, the elf woman wasted little time in bursting back inside, furious beyond reason that someone had dared attack _her Fírnen._ She was closely followed by the other elves.

But there was no enemy to attack.

Instead, in the center of the floor, she spotted a glint of gold.

_"It is a bright-colors-smells-nice," _Fírnen informed her, sniffing at it and obviously proud to have been able to identify the object.

"A flower. That's a flower, Fírnen," Arya murmured, dazed. "A lily. A _gilded lily_."

Shocking the confused elves behind her, Arya burst out laughing. "Oh, you bastard, I'm going to kill you when I leave here, I swear to you, you stupid boy!" she gasped, glowing with mirth and the absence of her earlier fear as she realized what must have happened, and who must have done it. But her voice didn't sound menacing in the least, laced as it was with relief. Fírnen simply gazed at the glittering flora with renewed fascination. Sheathing her sword, the elf woman dropped to her knees and righted the beautiful flower, as it had fallen onto its side. She removed the letter pinned to it and tore it open. With a brief flick of her eyes, she was easily able to ascertain that it was indeed Eragon who had sent it from the oddly slanted handwriting.

"Arya, what is the meaning of this?" one of the elders, Rinéa, demanded, sheathing her own blade angrily.

Cradling the flower's wrapped roots in her hands, Arya rose fluidly to her feet. "An unexpected gift from a rash friend."

"A good friend, it would seem. The craftsmanship of this flower is remarkable. They must have great talent," Däthedr remarked, drinking in its appearance and nodding appreciatively. "I would greatly like to meet this friend of yours."

"You have," Arya said quietly, so that it was difficult for him to hear her, deciding that he needn't know the story behind the very much alive precious plant. Placing the flower into the admiring hands of the nearest elf, she indicated the letter in her other hand. "Do you mind? It isn't long."

"Of course not, Drottningü."

Nodding her thanks, Arya's eyes eagerly raked down the paper. Occasionally, she would smile at the words, or would take a moment to define a word or phrase for Fírnen, whom she was relaying what she read to. Finishing, the elf folded the grubby bit of paper with surprising tenderness and tucked it in the front of her tunic. She was unable to disguise the fact that the letter and lily had softened her entire demeanor. Accepting back the flower, she made as if to speak again to the assembled elves lobbying for her queenship, but was suddenly interrupted.

_"Arya…" _Fírnen's voice sounded unexpectedly small.

_"Yes, dear one?" _ Arya knelt so as to be eye level with her bonded partner-of-her-mind-and-heart.

Completely, and admittedly rather rudely, (although Fírnen really couldn't care less) ignoring their guests, Fírnen stared directly into Arya's eyes and said firmly, _"You cannot be queen."_

Arya raised her eyebrows at him.

Struggling to find the words he needed with his limited vocabulary, Fírnen attempted to elaborate with broken phrases and shared memories. First, he displayed a memory of Arya's of Saphira soaring through the air. _"Dragons should be free, like she is," _he declared tentatively. This memory was immediately followed by one so old that it surprised her; Arya as a very young elf, arguing passionately with Islanzadi over how she had no right to imprison her in Ellesméra when the world outside needed her just as badly. Next was the very recent occurrence of when Eragon was offered Galbatorix's throne, and he turned it down point blank. This memory Fírnen regarded with warmth. _"Eragon-friend will not rule. He is a rider." _For his conclusion, the little dragon recalled Saphira's words after the incident and repeated them softly. _"Remember? She said, '_Sharing blood is not the only means of family. During our time amongst the living, each and every one of us is given the opportunity to choose our own family. And the bonds of trust and friendship are just as strong as those of blood.'_ And… I want to meet my family." _Fírnen concluded sadly.

_"Oh, Fírnen I… My people need me..." _Arya protested weakly. But she realized that her dragon had a point. How could she rule over a people she hadn't even spent even half her life with? And where would Fírnen fit in if she did? A lone dragon trapped among a myriad of elves that even _she_ hardly knew? Wherever her place was, it wasn't as queen. The elves were her people, but they weren't her family. They weren't her family…

Someone cleared their throat impatiently, and both dragon and rider jumped slightly.

"I am… so terribly sorry," Arya blurted out, anxiously tucking her inky tresses behind her pointed ears. "Fírnen was simply explaining something to me."

Dipping her head in acceptance, one of the elves, Laela, spoke up. "Yes, but we must return to the matter at hand," she said primly. "You, Arya, have taken the Yawë, and it is your duty to become our next queen. All that is left is for you to accept."

Arya sighed, and then lifted her chin. "No."

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><p>When he and Saphira arrived at Urû'baen, Eragon was surprised to discover that Nasuada had restored its name to Ilirea, out of respect for its history and heritage. But they didn't remain there for long, as two days after he and Saphira alit in the once Urû'baen, now Ilirea, Nasuada sent them out one more. This time, they traveled to Gil'ead and Cuenon—the two cities the elves had captured—so that Eragon could again use the name of names to clear away Galbatorix's spells.<p>

Both Eragon and Saphira found Gil'ead unpleasant to visit. It reminded them of when the Urgals had captured Eragon on Durza's orders, Arya's heinous torture at the hands of the same Shade, and also of the death of Oromis.

Cuenon, however, they enjoyed thoroughly. They stayed for nearly two weeks, and it was unlike any city they had seen before. The buildings were made almost entirely out of wood, with steep, shingled roofs that, in the case of the larger houses, had several layers. The peaks of the roofs were often decorated with a stylized carving of a dragon head, while the doors were carved or painted with elaborate, knotlike patterns. Eragon thought it lovely.

The day before they left, Eragon scryed Murtagh. For a while, the only thing Eragon was able to see in his hand mirror was darkness, the result of his brother's wards. But after a few minutes of waiting, Murtagh's face slowly came into focus.

Grinning widely at the sight of him, Eragon teased, "Did you get lost trying to find a bowl of water?"

"Yes, it's an unfortunate habit of mine," Murtagh replied with a weary smile, playing along. "Why did you contact me? Is something wrong?"

"No." Eragon shook his head. "I was simply checking in to see how you and Thorn fared."

A small conversation ensued over Murtagh and Thorn's experience in the Spine. Apparently, they were quite enjoying their newfound freedom. "But you were right, Eragon," Murtagh admitted at one point. "I will return soon, I think. After a few months of this, Thorn and I have decided that we should once again rejoin the rest of Alagaësia. We miss being there. Tell me, would Nasuada be amenable to our visiting Ilirea?"

Eragon nodded vigorously. "Really Murtagh, you ought to write to her," he reprimanded. "She considers you one of her friends."

The man in the mirror visibly brightened. "I will hear from you soon, brother," he said, grinning.

Eragon shook his head, smiling in return, and let the spell fade.

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><p>On the return trip, Saphira suggested that they return to visit Carvahall, but Eragon just shook his head mutely. It wouldn't be right, he thought, to return to visit Carvahall when there was nothing left to return to. If anything, he would leave feeling empty.<p>

But they _did _make a stop at the southern end of the valley, where Saphira rode a rising pillar of air to the top of a huge, bare mountain, Utgard, where stood the crumbling turret the Riders had built to keep watch over mad King Palancar. The turret had once been known as Edoc'sil, but now bore the name Ristvak'baen, or the "Place of Sorrow," as it was there that Galbatorix had slain Vrael.

Within the ruins of the turret, Eragon, Saphira, and the Eldunarí with them paid their respects to the memory of Vrael. Umaroth in particular was somber, but he nevertheless sighed, _"Thank you for bringing me here, Saphira. I never thought to see the place where my Rider fell."_

With that, Saphira spread her vast cerulean wings and leaped from the turret to soar away from the valley and over the grassy plains beyond.

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><p>Halfway to Ilirea, Nasuada contacted then through one of the Varden's magicians and ordered them to join a large group of warriors she had sent to march from the capital to Teirm.<p>

Eragon was pleased to discover that leading the warriors was none other than Roran. And among their ranks were Jeod, Baldor—who had regained the full use of his hand after the elves reattached it—and several more of the villagers.

Somewhat to Eragon's surprise, the people of Teirm refused to surrender to the Varden, even after he released them from their oaths to Galbatorix, and even though it was obvious that the Varden, with Saphira and Eragon to help, could easily capture the city if they wished. Instead, the governor of Teirm, Lord Risthart, demanded that they be allowed to become an independent city-state with the freedom to choose its own rulers and set its own laws.

In the end, after several days of negotiations, Nasuada agreed to his terms, provide that Lord Risthart swore allegiance to her as high queen, even as King Orrin had, and consented to abide by her laws concerning magicians.

From Teirm, Eragon and Saphira accompanied the warriors south, along the narrow coast, until they arrived at the city of Kuasta. They repeated the process from Teirm, but unlike Teirm, the governor of Kuasta yielded and agreed to join Nasuada's new kingdom.

Flying far to the north alone, Eragon and Saphira extracted the same promise from Narda before finally returning to Iliria, thoroughly worn out. They stayed for some weeks in a hall next to Nasuada's.

When time allowed, he and Saphira left the city and went to the castle where Blödhgarm and the other spellcasters guarded the Eldunarí rescued from Galbatorix. There, rider and dragon attempted to assist in the effort to heal the dragons' minds. They made progress, but it was slow, and some of the Eldunarí responded faster than others. Many of them, Eragon worried, simply did not care to live any longer, or were so lost within the labyrinths of their own minds that it was almost impossible to communicate with them in a meaningful manner, even for the elder dragons such as Valdr. To prevent the hundreds of maddened dragons from overwhelming those who were trying to help them, the elves kept most of the Eldunarí in a trancelike state, choosing to interact with only a few at a time. And yet somehow, this only made their task seem ever more daunting.

Eragon also labored alongside the magicians of Du Vrangr Gata to empty the citadel of its treasures. Much of the work fell to him, as none of the other spellcasters had the knowledge or experience needed to deal with many of the enchanted artifacts Galbatorix had left behind. But Eragon did not mind much; he enjoyed exploring the damaged fortress and discovering the secrets that lay hidden therein. Galbatorix had collected a host of wonders over the past century, some more dangerous than others, but all of them interesting. Eragon kept the existence of the most perilous artifacts a secret between him, Saphira, and Nasuada, deeming it too risky to allow knowledge of them to spread. But of the benign, Eragon's favorite was an astrolabe that, when put to his eye, allowed him to see the stars, even in daylight. He sent it to Arya along with the letter he wrote to her nearly every fortnight. But even after countless letters, he never received a reply.

They also recovered several hundred Riders' swords: swords of every color and shape, and made for both humans and elves. It was a breathtaking find. Eragon and Saphira personally carried the weapons to the castle where the Eldunarí were, in anticipation of the day when they would again be needed by the riders. Rhunön, Eragon thought, would be pleased to know that so much of her handiwork had survived, and he hoped that Arya had told her of it, as he had asked her to in his letter.

And then there were he thousands of scrolls and books that Galbatorix had collected, which the elves and Jeod helped to catalog, setting aside those that contained secrets about the Riders or the inner workings of magic. As they sorted through Galbatorix's great hoard of knowledge, Eragon kept hoping that they would find some mention of where the king had hidden the remainder of the Lethrblaka's eggs. However, the only mentions of the Lethrblaka or the Ra'zac he saw were in works by the elves and Riders from ages past, where they discussed the dark menace of the night and wondered what was to be done about a foe that could not be detected by magic of any sort.

And now that Eragon could speak openly with him, he found himself talking with Jeod on a regular basis, confiding in him all that had happened with the Eldunarí and the eggs, and even going so far as to tell him about the process of finding his true name on Vroengard. Talking with Jeod was a comfort, especially as he was one of the few people who had known Brom well enough to call him a friend.

Eragon found it interesting, in a rather abstract way, to watch what went into ruling and rebuilding the remnants of the Empire. The amount of effort required to manage such an enormous and diverse country was tremendous, and the task never seemed finished; there was always more that needed doing. Eragon knew that he would have hated the demands of the position, but Nasuada appeared to thrive upon them. Her energy never flagged, and she always seemed to know how to solve the problems that came before her. Day by day, he saw her stature grow among the emissaries, functionaries, nobles, and commoners with whom she dealt. She seemed perfectly suited for her new role, although he was not sure how happy she really was, and he worried about her because of it. And, from his brief mirror-to-mirror conversations with him, Eragon knew Murtagh did too.

Eragon watched how Nasuada rendered judgment upon the nobles who had worked with Galbatorix—willingly or not—and he approved of the fairness and mercy she displayed, as well as the punishments she meted out when necessary. Most she stripped of their lands, titles, and the better portion of their ill-gotten wealth, but she did not have them executed, for which Eragon was glad.

He stood by her side when she granted Nar Garzhvog and his people vast swaths of land along the northern coast of the Spine, as well as the fertile plains between lake Fläm and the Toark River, where few if any people now lived. And that too Eragon approved of. While he worried, he was also proud.

Like King Orrin and Lord Risthart, Nar Garzhvog had sworn fealty to Nasuada as his high queen. However, the large Kull pointed out, "My people agree with this, Lady Nightstalker, but they have thick blood and short memories, and words will not lead them forever."

In a cold voice, Nasuada replied, "Do you mean to say your people will break the peace? Am I to understand our races will once again be enemies?"

"No," Garzhvog replied, and shook his massive head. "We do not want to fight you. We know that Firesword would kill us. But… when our young ones have grown, they will want battles in which to prove themselves. If there are not battles, then they will start them. I am sorry, Nightstalker, we cannot change what we are."

The exchange troubled Eragon—and Nasuada as well—and he spent several nights thinking about the Urgals, trying to solve the problem they presented, but to little end.

* * *

><p><em>Nasuada,<em>

_ I do apologize for not having written for these past months. It's no excuse, but I really didn't pack very well when I left. I had to sneak into Cuenon in disguise and buy these writing materials. It was a bit interesting really, to be treated like I was a simple traveler, and I find I rather enjoyed the experience._

_ But I really did have to write to you. Eragon offered to simply carry my message by word of mouth, but _I _wanted to tell you: in a few months, Thorn and I shall be returning from our seclusion in the Spine. He and I have decided that we'll be ready to follow the Lead Rider wherever he chooses to lead us (providing he keeps his head on straight, of course). It hasn't been easy, overcoming all that has happened to us. But we _have _made progress, and I have to start _somewhere. _Returning to our friends seems a wonderful place to continue._

_ I suppose that what Thorn and I are really asking… is that will you welcome us into Ilirea? We would hate to place you into a sticky political situation, and if you'd rather us be discreet and avoid Ilirea altogether, we shall. Of course, I hope it doesn't come to that, because we were rather looking forward to meeting the new Queen. She sounds wonderful._

_ If you write back, Nasuada, just ask Eragon to send the letter to me. Our cave in the mountains didn't come with an address._

_Hoping You Understand My Weak Attempts at Humor,_

_Murtagh (and Thorn)_

Taking in a deep, shuddering breath, Nasuada smoothed the neat paper back onto the surface of her desk, battling with herself. She was unreasonably glad that Murtagh had written his careless, idiotic letter, and even more so that he would be returning. Although she knew she shouldn't be glad. What was the right and wrong here? On one hand, she wanted, more than anything, just to see Murtagh's face again. But he was the dreaded Red Rider, her (even if unwilling) kidnapper and torturer. And Nasuada was _Queen_! To the rest of Alagaësia, even their mere _friendship_ would be considered an abomination. How little people knew about Murtagh… and how easily people hated him, even when all he'd done was to _exist._ Nasuada _knew_ he was a good man…

A nagging, nasty doubt suddenly clawed at her. She'd heard of such things before. Young victims kidnapped and mistreated… their minds couldn't handle the strain, and something broke within them. They fell in love with their captors, returning, if ever, emotionally broken and confused.

Snorting, Nasuada stared at her folded hands, remembering her time in the dungeons of Galbatorix with a grimace. No, she didn't have the _capability _to imagine that beautiful side to the red rider that she, and she alone, had witnessed. Murtagh was perhaps the unluckiest person ever to have lived. But he was a better person for it, unlike herself.

Shaking her head, Nasuada smiled gently and touched quill to parchment, inking Murtagh his answer. She would welcome him with open arms.

He had_ written_ to her!

* * *

><p>As the weeks rolled by, Nasuada continued to send him and Saphira to various locations within Surda and her kingdom, often using them as her personal representatives to King Orrin, Lord Risthart, an the other nobles and groups of soldiers throughout the land.<p>

And wherever they went, they searched for a place that could serve as a home for the Eldunarí in the centuries to come and as a nesting and proving grounds for the dragons hidden on Vroengard. There were areas of the Spine that showed promise, but most were to close to humans or Urgals, or else were too far north (Eragon thought it would be miserable to live there year-round).

The Beor Mountains would have been perfect, but it seemed doubtful that the dwarves would welcome hundreds of ravenous dragons hatching within the bounds of their realm. Especially with the sticky issue of Murtagh. (Orik had conceded that the dwarves would not actively persecute the pair, who had yet to arrive, but he made no promises should they venture too close to the Beors, as his mercy was strictly a personal favor to Eragon and most dwarves had no such ties to him.) And no matter where they went in the Beors, even if they _did _overcome this quagmire, they would still be a short flight from at least one dwarven city, and it would not do if a young dragon were to start raiding the dwarves' flocks of Feldûnost—which, knowing Saphira, Eragon deemed more than likely.

The elves would, he thought, have no objection to the dragons living on or around one of the mountains in Du Weldenvarden, but he disliked the idea of placing the dragons and the Eldunarí within the territory of any one race. Doing so would give the appearance that they were lending support to that race in particular. The Riders of the past had never done that, nor—Eragon believed—should the Riders of the future.

The only location that was far enough away from every town and city and that no race had yet claimed was the ancestral home of the dragons: the heart of the Hadarac Desert, where stood Du Fells Nángaröth, the Blasted Mountains. It would, Eragon was sure, be a fine place to raise hatchlings. However, it had two drawbacks. First, they would not be able to find enough food in the desert to feed the young dragons. Saphira would have to spend most of her time carrying deer and other wild animals to the mountains. And of course, once the hatchlings grew larger, they would have to start flying out on their own, which would take them close to the lands of either the humans, the elves, or the dwarves. Secondly, the mountains were not the most easily defendable area, making Eragon wonder how they would protect the eggs, the hatchlings, and the Eldunarí.

_"It would be better if we could occupy another island," _Saphira insisted. _"What about the little group just below the Spine? Beirland, Nía, Illium, Uden, and Parlim?"_

_ "Saphira, people _live_ there!" _Eragon scolded.

Snorting, the dragoness pointed out, _"Not many. And they would leave if you asked them to-"_

_ "Saphira!"_

_ "Fine. But think, we'd need to build a whole city for the riders and dragons to live in, because one day we'll have hundreds. Those island dwellers who wish to stay could be employed as builders and architects, a far better living than poor fishing," _came her argument.

Eragon hesitated. _"That… could be considered favoritism among the races."_

_ "Invite other races to help as well then."_

_ "Those islands are part of Nasuada's new kingdom."_

_ "She'll gift them to you if you ask her. For the dragon race."_

_ "They're very close to Surda."_

_ "They're far closer to an empty stretch of the Spine, so if any hatchling has a wish to leave when they grow, they have a place to go."_

Surprised, Eragon found he didn't really have much else to say in argument. _"All right, I'll discuss it with Nasuada," _he ceded, scratching Saphira's scales.

The dragon hummed. _"I'm _always _right, Little One."_

* * *

><p><strong>If you guys actually noticed, yes, I did split this chapter in half. I was getting carried away with my embellishment. )<strong>

**Also, I _seriously _suck at all things Murtagh. Please, Murtagh fans, please don't kill me. Just pray to the fiction gods to spare my soul from eternal punishment. *is sorry***

_Don't forget, there's that 100 review shoutout coming up fast!_**  
><strong>


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